he street towards the dark wharves, and as he went he
whistled blithely.

The street was empty. Martin passed but one living being during the
rest of his journey. This was a figure in a gray greatcoat and cap,
who lounged against a telegraph pole across the street from Martin's
destination. The gray figure stared steadily towards the wharves;
Martin passed it by almost without notice.

CHAPTER IV

THE BLACK CRUISER

Martin was disappointed. The Black Cruiser--delectable name, of which
he had expected much--was, it appeared, housed in a commonplace and
very ugly two-story wooden building, a building with many dark and
shuttered windows on the upper floor.

From where he stood upon the corner, Martin could see that the building
was of considerable depth, and that the saloon appeared to occupy only
the front downstairs portion. The upstairs, with its many shuttered
windows, had the aspect of a deserted rooming-house. Just before him,
over the closed door to the saloon, was the inscription Smatt had
spoken of, in plain black letters, "Black Cruiser Saloon, Diego
Spulvedo, Prop." It was a sordid and unprepossessing exterior; Martin
felt that the Black Cruiser would prove the anti-climax to his
evening's adventures.

The second-hand of his watch climbed toward the hour. He knew old
Smatt's passion for exact punctuality; not a second before the
appointed time must he enter the place. The hand touched the required
point. Martin felt of the paper in his pocket and opened the door.

He stepped into a low-ceilinged bare and dingy room. The place reeked
of stale drink. A battered bar filled one side, and before it stood
five men in a row, attended upon by a heavily paunched and aproned
fellow. Martin accosted this last, as he approached the bar.

"Mr. Spulvedo?" asked Martin. "I wish to see Mr. Spulvedo."

The aproned man regarded him with a stare from heavy lidded and nearly
closed eyes. He had a swarthy, greasy, fat face, this officer of the
Black Cruiser, and moist, thick lips. Martin recalled Little Billy's
reminiscence concerning the "slithering about of fat and greasy
varlets." Was this the varlet? The name fitted.

"Spulvedo!" repeated Martin. "Are you Mr. Spulvedo?"

"Yais," drawled the man.

Martin dropped his voice to a whisper.

"I would like to speak with you alone," he commenced.

He shot a glance out of the corners of his eyes toward the five
patrons. Smatt had said to take